Mark Billingham - Lifeless

In retrospect, his one regret about killing the driver was that he hadn’t given the pathetic twat time to get a proper look at him. He’d have liked to have seen the shock register, just for a second, before the first kick had…

Mind you, there was no point dwelling on it. Most of them had been so out of it, so away with the fairies, that they hadn’t registered much of anything. The driver was in such a state, he wouldn’t have recognized him anyway, likely as not. He could smell the beer on the poor sod, alongside that stink they all had. That tangy, tramp stink. Sharp and musty at the same time, like cats had been pissing in a charity shop.

He turned off the bathroom light and moved into the darkness of the bedroom. He thought about checking to see if there was any metal on MTV, maybe working out for twenty minutes. He decided against it and began to undress; it was easy enough to do a bit more in the morning. He’d eaten late and the food hadn’t had a chance to go down.

Things in London had been fairly straightforward up to now, so it annoyed him that this last one, Hayes, had survived. It sounded, from what they’d said on the news and in the paper, that he wouldn’t survive for very long, but still, it rankled with him. It made him swear at the mirror and kick out at stuff. You did a good job and you took pride in it. That mattered. It was important that you did what was required.

He flicked on the TV. The light from the small screen danced across his clothes as he folded them carefully onto the chair at the foot of his bed.

He’d already made up his mind to do another one. This one would be just for him, would go some way toward making up for botching the last one. It wasn’t strictly necessary, but it couldn’t do much harm. It would cost him another note, of course, but twenty quid a pop wasn’t a lot for reinforcement that bloody good.

He climbed beneath the blanket in his vest and pants and began jabbing at the remote. As he had looked at what was showing on all the stations a few times, it was obvious that there was nothing he fancied, but he carried on regardless. Moving methodically through the channels with the sound down.

When he’d finished, Thorne tucked himself in and turned from the wall to find himself being studied.

“You want to be careful, mate. There’s one or two coppers round here’ll do you for that. Take great delight in doing it, an’ all.. .”

He stood directly opposite Thorne on the other side of the road, with a gray blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Early twenties was Thorne’s best estimate. He had delicate features set below spikes of blond hair and his cheeks hollowed dramatically as he dragged hard on a cigarette.

“I can show you a place thirty seconds from here which is a bit more private, like, and a lot bloody safer. Of course, there’s always McDonald’s if you want to go before midnight, though there is one down toward Trafalgar Square that sometimes stays open a bit longer. With a piss, like, there’s always somewhere, but there’s nothing quite like seeing them golden arches when you’re bursting for a shit.” He reached up a hand from beneath the blanket to take the cigarette from his mouth.

Thorne said nothing for a few seconds. The boy seemed friendly enough, but still, Thorne sensed that caution would be best. It would certainly look best. “Right,” he said. His voice was flat, with just a hint of aggression in the delivery.

The boy looked to his right. “You’re in the theater doorway, yeah? Just round the corner there?”

Thorne nodded, began to walk slowly toward it.

“Just so as you know, that’s Terry T’s spot.” He began to move in the same direction as Thorne, walking parallel to him on the other side of the narrow street.

“So, where is he?”

“He’s gone visiting, so you’ll be all right for the time being. He’ll be back at some point, though, so just as long as you know, yeah? As long as you know that’s Terry T’s spot.”

“Well, I know now. Thanks.”

The boy crossed the road, moving over to Thorne in a couple of strides and walking alongside him. “It’s a good spot, like. Sheltered

…”

“That’s why I took it,” Thorne said. “I think I’ll move around a bit anyway, see how it pans out.”

“Only Terry can be a right psycho, like. Goes a bit mental sometimes and, you know, with him being so enormous and that-”

“Mental how exactly?”

The boy chucked his cigarette into the road and hissed out a laugh. “I’m winding you up. I’m kidding, like. Terry’s all right, plus he’s my mate, so I’ll square things if he does get a bit funny with you.”

Thorne had seen the joke coming, but had let the boy have his moment. “Thanks,” he said.

They rounded the corner and Thorne was relieved to see that his sleeping bag and rucksack were still there. He’d decided to risk leaving them for a minute or two while he’d gone to answer the call of nature. The relief must have been clear to see on his face.

“Don’t worry, mate, people only tend to nick what they can sell. Nothing valuable in your bag, is there?” Thorne shook his head. “Don’t worry about your sleeping bag, though, you can pick one of them up anywhere. Salvation Army’s got thousands of the bloody things, or you’ll just see ’em lying around, so you can help yourself. You want to watch out for scabies, though, that is not fucking pleasant.”

“Cheers…”

“Best not to cart that much around at all if you can help it. Leave your stuff somewhere else, you know, one of the day centers or whatever. Trust me, even a plastic bag with some old papers and a pair of socks in it gets dead heavy if you’re carrying it around all the time, like.”

Thorne climbed the marble steps and sat down in the doorway. “How come you’re such a font of all fucking knowledge? You’re only twelve.”

The boy laughed again, nodding and spitting out the laugh between his teeth. “Right, mate, you’re right, but it’s like dog years on the streets, so I’m a lot older than you where it counts, you know?”

“If you say so.”

“How long you been around, then? I’ve not seen you…”

“First night,” Thorne said.

“Fuck.” The boy pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. He repeated himself, drawing out the word, respectfully.

“So, what? You’re the welcoming committee, are you?”

“Nearest thing to it, yeah, if you like.”

Thorne watched the boy rummage beneath the blanket and emerge with another cigarette. He could see that the boy was actually much taller than he’d first appeared. He’d walked with hunched shoulders, eyes down, as though he could tell exactly which way he was going by looking at the cracks in the slabs, by studying the pattern of discarded chewing gum on the pavement.

“You look like the Man with No Name,” Thorne said.

The boy finished lighting up, blew out a thin stream of smoke. “You what?”

Thorne pointed toward the blanket around the boy’s shoulders. “With that. Like Clint Eastwood in the movie, you know? The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.”

The boy shrugged and thought for a minute. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, rocking from side to side. “He the one did those films with the monkey?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Thorne shoved his feet down inside the sleeping bag. “Good time for your mate Terry to go visiting.”

“Why’s that, then?”

“One less for this nutter to go after. This loony that’s killing rough sleepers.”

The boy’s cheeks sank into shadow again as he took a deep drag. He held in the smoke until he needed to take a breath. “I suppose. He’s still got plenty to choose from.” His mood had changed suddenly: fear, suspicion, or perhaps a bit of both. It was hard for Thorne to work out which.